Ugandan Wedding

My friends at the Kasiki (pre-wedding party) liked me so much that they invited me to the wedding. Weddings in Uganda tend to be full-weekend affairs and, indeed, mine was as well. It began with a rainy drive through the smoke-filled slums teeming with roadside shops full of passion fruit, sugar cane stalks, and animal carcasses hung out to dry. I held Cindie on my lap and used my arm as her seatbelt. She studied my features intently and couldn’t stop touching my hair. “Children like mzungu (white) hair,” said Sylvia. “They like that it’s soft and slippery.” We continued on a road surely not meant for driving, and after bottoming-out and bruising the car’s under-belly on what felt like small boulders, we arrived at Rita’s house for tea and bananas under the palm tree in her back yard. Then we proceeded to the Anglican church. Four couples exchanged vows and swapped rings, one after the other with a few “intermissions” of hymns from the choir. Periodically, the congregation got up to bring money to the alter. Sometimes there was raucous laughter punctuated with ululations. Women in the congregation wore bright head scarves and colorful dresses with pointy shoulder sleeves. When I got tired of sitting in the pews, I walked to the back of the church and read an exhibit that chronicled the church’s history up until 1977.

The reception was outdoors in an Indian-owned garden over-looking the city. The bride and groom and their respective families danced their way down the aisle, keeping to the beat of the drum. They circled around the cake, and played a game of hide-and-seek in which the groom hides and the bride seeks. The wedding is not allowed to continue until the groom is found, much like the Seder with the seeking of the afikomen. There were a number of long-winded speeches, a gift-giving procession for the bride, traditional Ugandan food buffet, African dance troupe entertainment, and some raucous dancing of our own to top off the evening’s festivities. The mzungus out-lasted the Ugandans on the dance floor. We danced until about 1am.

An Afternoon Soundbite

In the middle of giving a tutorial on how to use the new template I created for my NGO's quarterly newsletter, my supervisor says in a deep, rich accent:

"Johldan, can I ask you -- is there something about Jewish eyes? A Ugandan woman in town whose grandparents were Jews told me that you can tell who is a Jew by looking in their eyes. So, every time I look at you I keep thinking I will find something special or strange in your eyes, but I haven't found anything yet. Every single day I am looking ... So, is it true? Can you tell who is a Jew from their eyes?"

Two minutes later ...

"What about Jewish hair? It's always curly, yes? When I see Jews in the movies, they have curly hair. When your hair was long, was it curly?"

30 seconds later ...

"Do you call yourself Jewish or just Jew? And what about Israelite? Are you that, too?"

This promptly put an end to newsletter template orientation and opened up a more lively conversation about the myths, mysteries, and intrigue of my Tribe. Yes!

No Jesus, No Pig

“This Jewish religion … it’s scary.”
“Scary? How so?”
“It’s strange. You know, strange people, strange words, strange food.”
“It’s just different.”
“What about the Bible? How do you interpret it.”
“We have the Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament. But we don’t use the New Testament.”
“Ah, I see. So, how do you pray? What do you talk about? Jesus?”
“Well, no.”
“No Jesus?!”
“No Jesus.”
“Isn’t that boring?”
“Not really. There’s a lot to talk about.”
“What about God?”
“Yes, there is God.”
“But no Jesus?”
“No Jesus. Jews don’t believe Jesus is God.”
“Ah, I see. And what about the food. You eat meat?”
“Yes, some Jews eat meat if it’s prepared a special way. Cows and chickens, but no pig.”
“No pig?!”
“No pig.”
“And no Jesus.”
“Right, no Jesus.”
“Wow. Scary.”
“Just different.”

Christ the King

On Sunday I go to chehch (church). I choose “Christ the King” from the options on my map. I wear my Sunday best (a blue and white polka dot dress) and arrive on time. 300 people shuffle out from the early service, and 300 more line up for the late. We swarm the back door, elbow to elbow, thigh to thigh. Men wear suits. Women wear traditional batik patterned dresses with fancy, colorful hair wraps. Some sit outside in plastic chairs to listen to the service amplified through outdoor speakers, fanning themselves with poorly photocopied passages from “Peetah and Pole” (Peter and Paul). A small child waddles his way through the purple and yellow summer skirts. His smile kisses my knee, and his soft arms and tiny chest press into my leg. I run my fingers along his fuzzy head, and he looks up at me wanting to be held. I am one of about five white faces. When it’s time to go inside, I sit toward the back next to a girl who looks about 15. She’s bald, with soft features and sad eyes. She whispers to herself and never looks at me.

Christ the King is Catholic. The ceiling has cracked planks of wood with fans that don’t spin. The Jesuses on the walls are white. The preacher is black. He wears an orange and green patterned shirt with geometric designs that I trace with my eyes. He tells us about Peetah and Pole, about sins, about Jesus, about children, about dying. Twice he mentions “the Jews.” I stare at Jesus’s face, then at the preacher’s. Then back at Jesus. Two days earlier I’d asked my co-worker, Deenie, if she imagined Jesus looking not white. She gave me a quizzical grin and said “I have nehvah seen a black Jesus. Jesus looks like you.”

Christ the King’s hymns are sung in English and Luganda. The lyrics are projected on a screen near the front of the alter for all to sing along. The choir sings pleasantly, and everyone follows in chilling unison. Some kneel. Some stand. Everyone takes communion. At the end of the service, we wish each other “Peace with Christ” which, among my pew neighbors, is a simple “Peace” or “Peace with …” before their voices trail off.

I wonder how long people have been coming to this church in their traditional African outfits. I wonder when they started believing, or if they really believe at all. I wonder when Christ the King arrived in Uganda, erected by foreign missionaries who’d never seen a black Jesus or maybe even a black preacher, but knew what they were bringing was the truth.